I seem to come back here when I'm in love.

Not exactly with a person (maybe?) but with a feeling. This feeling I get in college. This amazing feeling which is impossibly bittersweet. Sometimes I really need to escape my head. It's getting simultaneously better and worse in college. That makes no sense. I make no sense. I'm in love.

Here's the thing. It's amazing. I'm happy and sad by turns. Lonely and solitary by turns. I'm doing well, I'm managing. I need to step it up.

This sojourn was merely a break. It was a fallow period. The earth gathered its strength, lending some to me.

And now I'm back.
In love.
Stronger than before. 

There are exactly 30 days of school remaining and that is really, very, strange. To think that in just another month I'll go from being a schoolgirl to a preparing-for-boards-and-college girl.

I guess what's even stranger is how I won't miss school. Not sure how to feel about that. Do I cry or do I just be my usual awkward self? It's nothing I can control. Whatever will be will be. Que sera sera. I've changed school so many times I don't really feel particularly sad to be leaving school as opposed to not being able to go to any school any more. That's the sad part. Approaching adulthood.

And maybe I'm just overthinking it and scared out of my mind about inconsequential stuff, but essentially, what I'm griping about here is how time is just flowing past these days, like water. And I don't like how I can't tell that flow to please slow down. It won't listen to me anyway. A flow has a grander purpose than the groans of a 17 year old girl.

A 17 year old girl who will be 18 in a matter of three months, will be giving her boards in barely less than two. My own syllabus hasn't been covered yet. Good grief.

Ah well. Que sera sera.

A few pictures from my last children's day though.

Of Double Dates and Rainy Days (and smooching upstairs)

This was the double date. 

With our friends Arshia and Soham.

I can't even begin to express how lovely it was. This took place on the 29th of September, during our puja break. It was Nobomi, the 9th day of Durga Ma gracing our Earthen abode. Plans made a little impromptu, very new to me, we left. I informed mum properly this time and she gladly allowed. She was a little relieved, I believe. We were very excited because in spite of the fact no one was saying it blatantly- it was, a double date. 

We had planned everything on a whatsapp group we now call Amazing Grace, punning on Arshia Grace Manavalan's name. :3

So our plan was to meet at Soham's, and then set off for Salt Lake to see the pandals there. Arshia texted me beforehand saying, "Please come at 10. Not before that. I need to snog him. Don't tell Rounak." I didn't. Not then, anyway. I told him later and we giggled. We had already had our chance by then. 

Meeting Rounak's mum and Soham's mum, we set off. We went to see Nobodurga near Sitala Mandir, which was incredibly majestic. The lions were impressive. 

I'll type a full blown out post later. This has been on hold for a long while. I'll just upload it now. 

Lovely day, you shall be remembered. 

Terrified forevermore.

I'm terrified.
I'm terrified of the building collapsing on me as the Earth shakes from the tectonic plates clashing together, the brick and cement structure coming crashing down on my body, all of 70 kilograms, crushing every bone in my body and squeezing me like a sponge, except water does not come out.
I'm terrified of pain.
Of the many probable ways my death can take place and the umpteenth ways it can hurt. There's always capacity for more pain, just like there is more capacity for love and compassion.
I'm terrified of meaninglessness.
Often now and then, I slip into a place where everything is bereft of it's energy. Where I am nobody and nothing. Nothing matters any more.
I'm terrified of not being a somebody.
I'm terrified of the immensity of time, of it's almost-tyrranical tick. The sands of time slipping by, shifting restlessly.
I'm terrified of the memory where I believed I would forever be alone.
I would forever have to live by myself, and it wouldn't matter, because I wouldn't have any one. It certainly hurt less then than it does today.
I'm terrified of losing my love.
Of my love slipping away from me. Of his being so distant, and I don't just mean physically, but emotionally, that reclaiming his attention, his time, is a tedious task rather than a pleasurable pursuit. Of the desperation that entails. I am scared of the desperation I sometimes feel as dread fills my lungs and it hurts to breathe because your chest is so tight. So impossibly tight.
I'm forever terrified of a million things.
Of the uncountable probable ways I might die, of the memory of a time when I didn't know you guys, of pain, of losing him.
Yes, I'm always terrified.
Always, always. Of the iron-click of the manacle that hinders, of the chains of society that force you to slog relentlessly, without respite. Of the unfathomable ways in which a human life is rendered so fragile in the environment one lives with at large. Of the ephemeral flame of life. Of the scarring effect of pain. Of the moments of fleeting, wholesome happiness. Because they never return again. And so, like Norwegian Wood taught me, I seize them unflinching.
Always terrified.
Yet without something to lose, would I have met you my fiersome, wholesome, stupendously terrifying lifeline?
I am always terrified.
And perhaps that is why, I can't help but love you with all my might. Despite the despair of pain. Despite the many uncountable ways I might die.
My bittersweet, wholesome, terrifying love.

Stretching out my arms,
I let them comfort me..
Our bodies moving in the dark
It takes the pain from me.

And then I am in love,
With everyone I see,
I keep on moving
In the spaces where you used to be.

A few days ago when I returned home from tuition, here are a few things that I saw.

A murder of crows perched atop a laburnum.
Fluffy white clouds whisked into a white-turquoise expanse.
A Muslim mum cuddling her child.
Her child's head turned at a right angle with his mouth agape.

A few days ago when I returned home from tuition, here are a few things that I thought.
(Or rather questions).

Is he studying right now?
How must Ms Sharma feel teaching at Heritage?
Did she find another favorite student?
Am I a hypocrite to be missing her only now?
Do I really hate Pramanik?

A few more thoughts.

He'll definitely top.
It must be better than our school.
Probably, yes.
It wasn't possible to miss her all the time. It's not wrong to be missing her now. Point is, we're missing her. I am missing her. She was a great teacher. She gave me confidence in a time when I sorely needed it. When he wasn't here and sometimes I felt unbearably sad her classes were beautifully reassuring. Her words on literature being life deeply resounded, and will never leave me. Haven't yet left me. I deliberately avoid talking to her.
No; I don't hate her but I can't love her. But I admire her for her strength.

It's like when I was reading Breakfast at Tiffany's, I came across this absolutely great quote. Gorgeous.

"Doc really loves me, you know. And I love him. He may have looked old and tacky to you. But you don't know the sweetness if him, the confidence he can give to birds and brats and fragile things like that. Anyone who ever gave you confidence, you owe them a lot"

I wanted to cry thinking how much I owed her. There I was, in a new school yet again, this time of my own accord, finally of my own accord, and unsure of being there. All other times I was escaping from something. Escaping, hence sure of my being wherever I was. Escaping from the humiliation of being with girls in GDB to Jamshedpur. Escaping Kashfin's grasp on me and Jamshedpur's sleepy stance, back to Kolkata. This was the first time I was actually leaving some place. And it was so sad. And I was so unsure. And I missed everyone so damn much.
And there was ma'am all ready to assure me and Vedika and Sneha that we'd make it even if we failed in other subjects. Me and Sneha, that shifting from CBSE was really the right thing if we got to meet a person so great.
Me, that it was somewhat okay to be there, where he wasn't.

Fox gets annoyed and sardonic whenever I can't answer why I am at MHS. I thought the question was answered, but it's still not. And it won't be. And we'll forget about it later for it will be inconsequential then. But right now it matters. And I really don't know, because no one is here. And there is nothing. And yet there is something.

A few days ago when I returned home from tuition, I saw a bit and I thought quite a bit more. And I was happy. Not the euphoric kind, or the joyous kind. Not even the treacherous realm I described two years ago. No; I was happy. A peaceful kind of happy. Even as things crumbled, there was something to look forward to. Primrose promises and grey dreams. Gay happiness. The Supreme Court ruled in favor of fundamental privacy rights, Fox was planning to come over, I finally missed ma'am with all my might, but things were better. I would meet him now and in the pujas. I would pass my exams because I felt sure of myself. I would meet ma'am during the pujas. It was okay to be there where he wasn't, where all that I had loved with a fierce passion wasn't, because things were finally beginning to make a little sense. I identified with the daily news better, English classes made more sense, I took notes, Sociology made sense, I could connect with History better, I realised more things about myself. Growth is a good time; the only time.

Though I still can't answer why I am here where he isn't, even if it made so much sense to leave where I was at that time, it's better now. Somewhat. We meet and it feels impossibly lovely. We met today. There is sadness. Feelings of inadequacy. That's nothing new or great. Everyone has their personal confusions to be muddled and be riddled with. It's okay. We'll get there.

When I get like this, I feel nostalgic. I feel like re-reading Perks of Being a Wallflower. I end up missing everything I've ever done and everywhere I've ever been.

The other day Shubhangi said I was friendly and expressive. That's another thing, I've become expressive only recently. I'm still the same awkward person who can't chat about inane things with random people. But Puri said, "You're crazy in a relatable way" which made a lot of sense, and explains why people approach me.

This only happens in Kolkata. I swear, I owe this city so much. I love this city. I called it a trap-town and I maintain it is a trap town. You'd want to leave it when you grow up but you wouldn't be where you are without it. It's a great woman. A woman you'll truly love. For some the only woman they'll ever truly love. Dressed in desire, lazily sultry.

I've ranted on and on. Nothing's okay, but when I write it feels as if it is. I present it like it is. And maybe it really is. I don't know anything. I stay confused always. Writing gives me a sense of control and order, as if everything makes sense when it in reality does not. I have not been able to write anything, and yet I'm typing away. Maybe it's not beautiful and nothing amazing, but it's me. And incidentally I am writing about me. I feel so narcissistic, but can't help it because writing holds me together. It's like Watanabe writing letters to hold his life together.

I know I won't be a writer, I only ever write for myself and for those I love. That is why this blog is private. But it's also saddening to realize that I can't write, can't produce anything significant on paper, because all I ever did was write for myself. As I'm doing now. Essays hurt if they can't dwell on the personal. That is my fault I guess. Way too much subjectivity.

Ah, enough thinking. I'll stop.

But a final thought- if I grow up to find myself all alone, how shall I ever survive? 

I will myself to write from day to day, the struggle is so arduous and so meaningless. Nothing comes of it. Whatever I write seems trite and devoid of meaning and just irrevocably stupid. Almost as if I've used up my allocated supply of wit and humour and warmth and just am this boring and eggheaded of a person. Someone Scout would describe having a conversation with, as, slowly sinking to the bottom of the ocean. But then again that has always been my impression of myself in social contexts. Any social context.
Sometimes the words come to me and a strand emerges, leading somewhere. The trouble then, becomes, not knowing where the strand leads. I could follow and find out, except that when I try to I impose my own meanings upon the strand and become conscious of imposing it. The thread is lost with consciousness. Rust Cohle called it the biggest tragedy of mankind, I do not concurr.
It's like this. Sometimes you know what you value. Sometimes the reasons for why you love what you love are just out there, spread on the table, like plates with your breakfast heaped on top. But you can't will yourself to eat. You can't partake of a single morsel. The French toast looks sumptuous, the coffee smells divine. The pancakes are swimming with honey and apples as fresh as the grapes accompanying are all there, laid out. But you just can't eat. To eat would be torture. It's almost as if you've forgotten how to eat, your stomach does not remember how to enjoy the food. Maybe you could forcefeed, because if you don't eat anything for a long time you'll die, of course. And this is the sixth month of you not being able to write already. The pancakes really do look inviting. The coffee is the right colour and just what you need early morning. Aromas coalesce and rouse your appetite the teeniest bit. You pop a grape between your lips.
And then, of course, it is hell. You wonder why you even began to eat. You just can't swallow this. Accepting this grape would be nothing short of subjecting yourself to Azkaban. Of course you don't want to go to Azkaban. You won't be allowed to use magic in any form, and you won't meet your loved ones as much as you'd like. You can't do this. You spit it out. You wait for another day.
Execept, of course, you can't. Not now. This is not the time. You're too scared of atrophy. Of becoming someone who can't employ the beautiful symbolism and imagery you once could. You wonder: could you do it then, too? Then you stop. Life is a cycle of endless doubting of the self. Can't take the stress. Can't handle it.
So you try roundabout ways of eating the grape. Of course you begin with the grape. First you simply lick it, trying to feel your way around it to be able to feel comfortable enough to swallow, if not chew. It doesn't work. The slow almost-sensual exploration of this tiny fruit just spurrs on your distaste. Then you close your eyes and try to blaze your way through, chewing it ferociously and swallowing with the utmost willpower. Then of course, you belch. Vomit. So much for forcing yourself.
Maybe you could try grape with custard. So you do. Your sister's custard is good enough, or at least as you remember it from a year ago. You dip the grape, pop it in and take a bite. Chew. It's still horrible but at least you can continue chewing. A few more chews have you spitting it out, but the point has been made. So now you keep trying to have the grape with custard. Endlessly. Every hour you try to have it with custard. Soon it makes you sick. But you will yourself to continue until you can swallow without feeling like Gollum.
And one day you do.
Your joy knows no bounds. Finally you can enjoy eating the food you love so much. You cut into hot and gooey pancakes, with chocolate syrup this time. Put a bite to your mouth. Hmm. It tastes good the first few seconds then it goes back to tasting slightly trite, then utterly plebian. At least it's not disgusting, but your ultimate aim, which was to experience the joys of eating a marvellous English breakfast as if for the first time every day, to capture that magic, has been rudely shattered. You realise that you can never, ever, experience that ethereal ephemeral insanity again. That moment of stupendous magic and inspiration, when laws ran amok and anything was possible. It's gone leaving nothing, zilch, nada. You plow your way through breakfast gloomily, all you want now is to sleep. Sleep sleep sleep. Eternal sleep.
Slowly, however, after plowing your way through a couple of breakfasts, you realize the plebian fare has grown on you. The chocolate tastes pleasant and the apples are fresh and not nauseating. The coffee does it's work and the French toast is filling. Sometimes you take it with chili sauce, it adds to the experience.
You realize that although you can never experience that gloriously realized moment of your first English breakfast again, you can have it for the rest of your life with considerable satiation and pleasantness. If you experiment a little, you can often discover favourable avenues and most often than not, you do. Once you even take the drastic step of cooking Italian for a change, and find the aberration utterly delicious and scandulously pleasing. Maybe you ought to do this more often. Mix and match.
The lost moment will never return, of course. Nor will the first taste of crunchy bacon. But you may discover many other new moments which will be memories and guidelines through the journey of your life. And the most moment will be converted into a star, to be looked at and sighed after. To be loved and left alone, like a simple reminder in the canvas of your life like the sky.
So, then, you too may attempt to pen your love again. And recall that great first breakfast. And of course you'll waste page after page trying to capture or emulate for the reader just how sumptuous it was. But perhaps you will never arrive even a mile close to the actuality of it. Perhaps, if you're blessed under your star, you will. Either way, you'll recall with faithful and ardent admiration and love, that moment. And to capture it will serve as your life's glory.
And so it is too with life devoid of meaning, to comit oneself to moments and not the morsels in themselves. The morsels remain for the enjoying, in the moment.